God. James.
I sat on the floor next to the window, exactly where we had sat the other night. The view was the same, but everything looked different. I still couldn’t believe how sarcastic I had been to such a sweet guy, but he disappointed me in a profound way. And that’s probably because I disappointed myself in the same way. I was really no different than he was, and would endure precisely the same struggles if I’d been lucky enough to be born into his life.
Maybe he was right about me – perhaps I didn’t feel worthy enough to succeed. I stood up and skulked over to my flounderingscreenplay – the way one might move towards a killer spider. It felt light and meaningless in my hands.
Lucy and I sat on the bed, and I closed my eyes until all I could perceive was black. My perfected ability to fantasize now took me deep into the heart of a movie theater. With extra buttery popcorn in one hand and an iced cold Coke in the other, I found a seat as far back as I could. I sat through preview trailers until a serious score finally took over, signaling that
Space Boy
, a film written by Tracy Johnston, had indeed begun.
I opened my eyes to the first scene, just as I had written it months ago. We, the audience, are seeing Earth through the eyes of *The Space Station*. This station isn’t really a place as much as it is a force. It beckons only to those who long for freedom – a freedom so vast that it can only be compared to space. It is neither a good force nor a bad force – but it is there, and it exerts itself on all those who would seek expansion. Like a mirror, the space station ultimately serves to reflect.
And then we CUT TO a young blonde boy who is standing alone on the balcony of a large house. He is staring up at the heavens through a large telescope – and when he pulls his face away, we can see that he is longing for something. We can also see the traces of sadness that he carries. Who knows who this child might be or who he will become, but it quickly becomes clear that his insatiable curiosity for the unknown will take him wherever he needs to be.
The phone rang just as I was about to advance my protagonist. Shit. I ignored the phone but the mood was lost. So far, the blueprint I had spelled out with words was translating well to the screen in my head. I would have to use my powers of fantasy to guide me through the first fifty-one minutes so that I could find the visual track to write the rest. And when it was done, there would be no guarantee that it wouldn’t just languish in a drawer or on a shelf – for the rest of all time.
Such would be a tragedy, similar in scope to the Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower never having been built – only existing as stacks ofblueprints disintegrating into dust. Except it was almost a sure thing that my spectacle would never be built or seen, and the architect would never be admired or remembered forever throughout history. It was simply the way of Hollywood, a giant graveyard for lost and forgotten blueprints.
Maybe my ideas of self-importance were too grandiose – instead I should be humble, and just write without any regard for outcomes. That’s what all the wise people seemed to suggest. It was best to be without expectation and watch the magical moments unfold. But it was in these waters that I always capsized.
It was hard to do anything at all without an expectation of some kind, unless you were kidding yourself. I loved writing but it was so damn hard, and I needed incentives to continue. Fame and fortune were huge bonuses, but then I’d be writing for all of the ‘wrong’ reasons.
Now, with money in the bank, there was no reason not to write – unless of course, I lacked the sufficient passion for such a monumental endeavor. Or maybe I was just drained from the effort of piling up so much defeat.
My head throbbed, so I took a taxi to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf and had a large fix of caramel flavored caffeine. I slurped and pouted – exactly like
I sat on the floor next to the window, exactly where we had sat the other night. The view was the same, but everything looked different. I still couldn’t believe how sarcastic I had been to such a sweet guy, but he disappointed me in a profound way. And that’s probably because I disappointed myself in the same way. I was really no different than he was, and would endure precisely the same struggles if I’d been lucky enough to be born into his life.
Maybe he was right about me – perhaps I didn’t feel worthy enough to succeed. I stood up and skulked over to my flounderingscreenplay – the way one might move towards a killer spider. It felt light and meaningless in my hands.
Lucy and I sat on the bed, and I closed my eyes until all I could perceive was black. My perfected ability to fantasize now took me deep into the heart of a movie theater. With extra buttery popcorn in one hand and an iced cold Coke in the other, I found a seat as far back as I could. I sat through preview trailers until a serious score finally took over, signaling that
Space Boy
, a film written by Tracy Johnston, had indeed begun.
I opened my eyes to the first scene, just as I had written it months ago. We, the audience, are seeing Earth through the eyes of *The Space Station*. This station isn’t really a place as much as it is a force. It beckons only to those who long for freedom – a freedom so vast that it can only be compared to space. It is neither a good force nor a bad force – but it is there, and it exerts itself on all those who would seek expansion. Like a mirror, the space station ultimately serves to reflect.
And then we CUT TO a young blonde boy who is standing alone on the balcony of a large house. He is staring up at the heavens through a large telescope – and when he pulls his face away, we can see that he is longing for something. We can also see the traces of sadness that he carries. Who knows who this child might be or who he will become, but it quickly becomes clear that his insatiable curiosity for the unknown will take him wherever he needs to be.
The phone rang just as I was about to advance my protagonist. Shit. I ignored the phone but the mood was lost. So far, the blueprint I had spelled out with words was translating well to the screen in my head. I would have to use my powers of fantasy to guide me through the first fifty-one minutes so that I could find the visual track to write the rest. And when it was done, there would be no guarantee that it wouldn’t just languish in a drawer or on a shelf – for the rest of all time.
Such would be a tragedy, similar in scope to the Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower never having been built – only existing as stacks ofblueprints disintegrating into dust. Except it was almost a sure thing that my spectacle would never be built or seen, and the architect would never be admired or remembered forever throughout history. It was simply the way of Hollywood, a giant graveyard for lost and forgotten blueprints.
Maybe my ideas of self-importance were too grandiose – instead I should be humble, and just write without any regard for outcomes. That’s what all the wise people seemed to suggest. It was best to be without expectation and watch the magical moments unfold. But it was in these waters that I always capsized.
It was hard to do anything at all without an expectation of some kind, unless you were kidding yourself. I loved writing but it was so damn hard, and I needed incentives to continue. Fame and fortune were huge bonuses, but then I’d be writing for all of the ‘wrong’ reasons.
Now, with money in the bank, there was no reason not to write – unless of course, I lacked the sufficient passion for such a monumental endeavor. Or maybe I was just drained from the effort of piling up so much defeat.
My head throbbed, so I took a taxi to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf and had a large fix of caramel flavored caffeine. I slurped and pouted – exactly like